The Wind
by Cathy Roberts
The wind whistles as it darts around the corner
Pale and sickly leaves are ripped from their trees.
Clouds scurry across the endless sky
Heading to a wet and cold rendevous.
I shiver from the imagined chill of the air.
The biting cold a drastic relief from the sizzled days of summer.
The clouds flitter across my vision
Heedless of my plea for rain and comfort.
I curse the elements, curse the parched soil.
Still no reprieve in sight for the farmer or thirsty child.
A smell of death rides the wind,
And the song it brings is cruel.